Chapter 14 Ruth
fourteen
Ruth
I don’t sleep. I mean, I shut my eyes, but my brain flashes those texts over and over like some sort of weird texting marathon I can’t stop watching.
For the life of me, I can’t fathom why Bill is pursuing me. The dude is a bit of a legend, and not just in Mapleton. He was a phenomenal hockey player back in his day. He could have any woman on his arm.
Now, I’m lying here at 5:12 a.m., mentally inventorying every outfit I own and debating whether it’s weird to wear heels to a non-date. I mean, I’m certainly not dressing up for a snack, because that makes me look like I’m trying.
I’m not trying.
But I don’t want to embarrass myself.
By 6:00, I give up and do the unthinkable.
Don’t do it.
I eye my phone like it’s burning a hole through my nightstand. Clearly, I’m not thinking straight in my overtired state of mind. I snatch the phone, my fingers typing away before I have the willpower to stop them.
I type his name: Bill Baker
And I hold my breath as I wait for Google to find me all the reasons I don’t want to see Bill again. He must have a criminal record. Unpaid parking tickets? Anything to help convince me this is a terrible idea.
Google pulls up a hockey highlight reel.
Okay. That’s assumed since he played professionally. Out of curiosity, I click on it, and I’m instantly transported into an alternate universe where I’m watching him bodycheck someone into the boards. Wow! Uh, I’ve seen that done before, but when he does it, it’s a little… something.
Or maybe a lot of something.
It is silly to watch this footage, as it’s almost twenty years old! I click out of it, returning to my search page where there’s an article: "Former NHL Star Turned Investor Acquires New Subdivision."
What? A whole subdivision?
That can’t be right. I keep reading.
Another article: "Bill Baker Donates $1 Million to Children's Hospital."
Okay, so charitable. That’s totally fair. It’s easy to be charitable when you’re rich.
"Former NHL Star Bill Baker Performs Life-Saving CPR and Saves Child’s Life at Public Beach."
WHAT?!
Now I slam my phone down on the bed next to me.
Who is this man?
There’s no way someone can be rich, charitable, good-looking, athletic, and save children’s lives. The only thing worse is if I find out he’s also rescuing puppies. I better not read that anywhere!
Being nosey, I retrieve my phone and scroll in desperation for a red flag. Ex-girlfriend drama? Misdemeanor for punching a fan?
Not a chance.
Just more shining spotlights:
“Bill Baker Hosts Gala for Shelter Dogs and Senior Cats.”
Okay, I didn’t mean that about the dogs!
Sweat springs on my brow. I mean, every rich person gives money to support animals. I keep scrolling until I land on something that nearly jumps off the page:
“Bill Baker’s Runway Debut.”
Wait! Just. One. Minute.
What is this all about? The date is older, from about ten years ago. I stare at the link for a minute.
No.
Do. Not. Look.
No good can come from looking at a photo of Bill Baker modeling.
With a tiny squeal leaking from my lips, I quickly shut my eyes and dare.
Click!
I open one eye, and there he is! A full-color, high-resolution photo of a younger Bill Baker—shirtless, smirking, doing some kind of jawline thing while posing in designer jeans.
And I drop my phone.
It hits the floor with a loud thwack. I freeze like I’ve been caught committing a crime. I don’t need Noah to wake up this early, thinking someone is breaking in.
Scrambling to pick it up, I murmur, “Oh, no-no-no-no,” like if I wish hard enough, the image of him will disappear.
It doesn’t.
Of course it doesn’t.
Bill’s still on my phone, looking entirely like not-date material. If anything, it appears to burn brighter on my phone, like someone cranked up the screen light.
I should click out of it. Instead, I slap the phone back to my bed face down, while vowing to never, ever, again google Bill Baker.
Now that I’ve wasted enough time doing that, I have the opening shift at the diner to get to. It’s not going to run itself. Maybe a few cups of strong coffee will jolt me back into reality. The kind where I don’t get fluttery over a guy who holds my son’s future in the palms of his hands.
I throw on a clean uniform dress, pin up my hair, and head out before Noah even makes a peep. It’s still half-dark when I unlock the diner and flip the welcome sign to OPEN. I have barely switched on all the lights when the front door jingles open.
And there he is! Bill Baker with a good-morning smile aimed right at me.
“Wow,” I say, blinking my eyes into focus. I still haven’t had time to make the first pot of coffee. “Coming on a little strong. Don’t you think? Our non-date isn’t until this afternoon.”
He shrugs like he isn’t waltzing into my workplace with ulterior motives gleaming out the corners of that smile. “What can I say? You were right about the pancakes.”
I narrow my eyes. This is way too early for any sort of flirtation, and I had clearly warned him. “You can take a seat but remember, you promised no flirting.”
He gives me an innocent look. “No, I promised no flirting on our non-date. You said nothing about the pre–non-date window.”
I roll my eyes and grab a notepad, adding, “pancake stack” to the top. “Would you like a side of bacon and coffee with your pancakes?”
“You are reading my mind already.” He leans forward, lowering his voice enough to make my pulse skip. “That’s clearly fate.”
I quickly turn toward the kitchen window, mostly so he can’t see the flush rising over my neck. “Walking in pigs and cakes,” I say, handing the ticket to Margie, who gives me a knowing look and raises an eyebrow.
If I was looking for a man, this would be the time where I would loiter near the counter and find all sorts of ways to make small talk.
That’s the last thing I need to do! I quickly turn the automatic coffeepot on, then busy myself wiping down already-clean tables on the opposite side of the place, while my eyes keep flicking out the window as I pray for customers, so I can busy myself with them.
It’s not lost on how Bill has settled onto his stool like he now owns it. His hair is a tad longer than what is normally deemed clean cut, but he wears it parted on the side, in a classic old-money part. His eyes do that crinkle thing when he catches me watching him.
Doh!
Why am I watching him?
I shake my head and mutter under my breath, “Get it together, Ruth.”
But my heart doesn’t seem to care. It seems like it’s already planning what I’m going to wear to our non-date. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “So, do you care to give me any hints about our non-date this afternoon, so I know what to wear?”
“There’s going to be snacks.” His voice is even, like he has the itinerary already memorized. “And activity.”
“Activity?” I echo with raised eyebrows, as that sounds a tad suspicious. I never agreed to activities. The coffeepot gurgles, announcing it’s done, and I hustle behind the counter, pour his cup, and slide it across the counter.
“Don’t worry about it.” He winks as he takes his cup by the handle and leans back. “I got it taken care of. You just bring yourself.”
“Order up!” Margie saves me, and I turn on my heel and grab his plate, setting it in front of him.
“Enjoy.” I smile politely as the door opens again, bringing in a new table of customers, and I’m able to step aside, leaving Bill to eat.
I wish I could say my mind was put to ease, but it races full throttle all afternoon.
I drive right up to the fence and park under a crabapple tree that’s stubbornly holding on to a few brown leaves, like it’s claiming them to prove we won’t have a winter this year. Kind of like what I’m doing, clinging to the fact this isn’t a date.
Because it’s not a date.
It’s two people sharing a snack.
Two people who may, or may not, be attracted to each other.
Definitely not a date.
After killing the engine, I sit with my fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my heart flutters. Then I stuff my small wallet into my oversized coat pocket, swing open the door and step out.
The chilly air bites at my knees, and the regret of my decision to wear a dress sinks in.
It’s my favorite shade of pink to match my coat.
Now that I’m here, I know without a doubt, it’s completely wrong for a winter “non-date.” He didn’t forewarn me about the outdoor part.
At least I had the foresight to wear tights.
Still, as I tug the hem of the dress and glance around, I feel completely overdressed.
Yet, underdressed at the same time, if that makes any sense.
Bill’s sitting casually on a park bench, wearing jeans, a Granite Ice hoodie, and a crooked smile that does things to my nervous system.
The second his eyes land on me, his grin widens, which sends my heart ramping up even more.
“Wow,” he says as he stands and strides toward me.
“You look incredible. Pink’s totally your color. ”
I blink, all the while I’m yelling internally at myself for how terrible this is going. He’s not supposed to compliment the color. It’s my favorite color, and he’s not supposed to notice that. “Uh. Thanks.”
“Are you ready for this extravagant snackfest?” He gestures toward the stretch of sidewalk lined with food trucks.
“There’s a food truck festival today. So, it’s a very casual non-date activity, but hopefully you find something you enjoy snacking on.
” He holds his phone out in front of us, where he has a list opened to the food truck lineup, and he starts reading, “Okay, we’ve got: deep-fried mac and cheese balls, pizza-stuffed waffles, cheddar tots, PB&J quesadillas, candy corn cotton candy, giant corn dogs, walking tacos, fifty-two flavors of lemonade, and mini donuts. ”
“That’s a lot of choices.” I run my hand through my hair, tucking back a few strays that seem to want to play in the wind.